


In the low-lamp light I was free (heaven and hell were words to me)

by Mellaithwen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Dancing, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>AU set during and after Age of Ultron</b><br/> <br/><i>“The War's over,” He can hear Peggy saying, her voice whispering on the wind that shakes through the tall grass. “We can go home." It’s a lie he tells himself often. </i></p><p>Peggy isn't the only one Steve sees in his vision... and later, when the fighting's over and Steve's back in his apartment in Washington DC, his eyes are open, and Bucky's standing there like something out of a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the low-lamp light I was free (heaven and hell were words to me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Hozier's fault.

Something— _someone_ —barrels into him with impossible speed, and the force of it throws him down to the ground. Metal pipes fall from disturbed shelves and hit Steve in the stomach but he doesn’t feel a thing. The world glows red and gold, and he’s not on the ship anymore. There’s an aching in his head and in his heart as he stumbles forward into the dream. He squints at the light, before shapes become people; become victory banners, become drinks, become dancing feet. 

 

A door creaks loudly as it opens, and beyond its threshold, men and women dance and laugh, and occasionally fall to the ground, exhausted and elated. Some shriek, and then die at his feet. Some smile, with bloody lips, teeth turned red in a wolfish grin. The sound fades in and out. In the corner a fight breaks out, then stops, then starts again, then disappears entirely.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a woman—her hair a burning red—vault over her dancing partner with deadly grace, before landing completely unflustered, and swirling into another move.

 

Cymbals crash on stage, and the camera flashes are loud and bright, and leave him flinching as they go off on either side of him. A couple kiss in the booth where they’re sat, and at their feet, there is a man bleeding out from his wounds. His hand is reaching out to Steve, before he pulls back and salutes him instead. 

 

“Let’s hear it for Captain America!” Someone shouts from the far reaches of his memory, and he spins around to find its owner, but finds Peggy instead. 

 

He’s floored by her presence. Her hair is curled and coiffed and she looks every bit the War-time-Wonder he remembers her to be. A few weeks since he saw her last, but three years, since he saw her young. Seventy for everyone else. But here she is, present and _whole_. Her smile is ever familiar, so much the same, but the speed in which she runs over to him? He’s missed that. Terribly.

 

“Steve!” Her voice is light, and warm and kind. “You’re late.”

 

She’d said the same thing on his first visit to the nursing home. Another reminder that everyone around him had been left waiting, going through life on a slower path. 

 

“You’d think you’d be used to that by now.” He says now, as he did then. She smirks as she takes a sip of her drink—blood red lips kiss the rim of the glass, before she puts it down to one side.

 

“Are you ready for our dance?” She asks, her eyes unencumbered by time, and the weight of years of espionage. He thinks of their short time together, of promises left unkept, and he takes her hand with great abandon, and she spins into his embrace. They sway together effortlessly, left to right and back again. When the time’s right, Steve dips Peggy, and she honest-to-god _giggles_.

 

“You’ve been practising.” She marvels fondly, and Steve has to swallow past the lump in his throat. Her hair has streaks of grey in it, and he can’t think why he didn’t notice it before. 

 

The next song is faster, and Steve only steps on her toes twice. She’s gracious enough not to flinch, though the second time she swats him on the arm and tells him to relax. With a firm grasp on her hips he raises her up off of the ground, and twirls, and as her body slides back down, she runs her hand down the side of his face, and neck before resting her palm against his chest.

 

“Saturday at the Stork Club.” She says, but her voice is crackling—tarnished by white noise and a bad radio signal. “Don’t be late. I said.”

 

“Oh Peg, I never meant to keep you wait—”

 

Peggy shushes him with a finger held to his lips.

 

“I daresay you’re worth the wait, Captain.” She tells him, leaning in close, almost conspiratorially so, whispering in his ear; “And so, I should think, is he.”

 

Steve doesn’t have time to question it, before he hears a familiar voice. He’d know it anywhere.

 

“Mind if I cut in?” The voice asks and as he steps forward out of the shadows, Steve can feel something burning behind his eyes at the sight. 

 

Clean-shaven, hair cropped, and clothed in his dress-uniform, James Buchanan Barnes steps forward with a smile. To his right, Peggy stands on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek.

 

“The War’s over.” Peggy reminds him. “And things are different now,” she says as she edges close, leaning between the two of them; smiling knowingly. “We can go home.” She says, her arms resting  on the shoulders of men missing in action. Declared dead before their time.

 

Bucky’s smile is crooked, but his eyes are fond as he looks back and forth between Peggy and Steve accordingly.

 

“Imagine it.” She says as she steals a cigarette from Bucky’s pocket and a matchbook from the bar. She reaches for their hands, holding one of each as she starts to walk away.

 

“My boys,” she smirks, her words almost like a blessing, as she steps backwards until their hold is nothing more than brushing fingertips, outstretched in the empty space.

 

She disappears into the crowd, and as Steve turns back to Bucky, their eyes meet. 

 

“Wanna dance?” Bucky asks, beaming with confidence—his cheeks flushed, his smile inviting. His eyes, bright and shining. His hand is held aloft and for an awful second, Steve thinks he might not reach him in time—there’s a howling wind, and the room is freezing and Bucky’s not smiling at all, in fact, in that moment, he looks terrified—but then their hands clasp one another so tightly and something in Steve’s chest flutters.

 

“Alright, but you gotta watch out for my two left feet.”

 

Steve’s arms wrap around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky’s arms are on Steve’s shoulders. His hands brush the back of Steve’s neck while his fingers run through his hair. Their heads are bowed, eyes closed and bodies swaying to the gentle crooning of the singer on stage. It’s a song they both know, but Steve can’t make out the words. Every single soul around them is standing still, parted so that the floor is theirs, and theirs alone. Steve hears a crash, and he smells smoke, but Bucky’s there, breathing, _whole_ and Steve wants to be selfish just this once. 

 

“You gotta wake up, Stevie.” Bucky orders, as he nuzzles into Steve’s shoulder. His voice is stern and Steve thinks it sounds afraid but he can’t be sure, so he starts to listen instead. He can feel the air around them shift and bend. He looks up to find Bucky staring back at him, closer than before. Their foreheads are pressed together. Breathing slow, their hands find one another—Steve’s grip clasped around Bucky’s wrist. He can feel the steady thrumming of his pulse beneath his fingertips, as it starts to speed up in time with his own. Bucky moves to hold Steve’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing each cheek in tandem.

 

“I can’t lose you again.” Steve admits, looking down, swallowing past the lump in his throat, shivering at Bucky’s touch on either side of his face.

 

“Idiot,” he chides. “I’m _right here._ ”

 

“No, you’re—”

 

Bucky vanishes, and Steve feels the familiar vertigo of being left behind.

 

“—you’re _not_.”

 

The music returns with a cacophony of sound; too loud and too fast and all of a sudden the dancefloor is full again. Colours spin and shift as each figure loses form as they sway—one merging into another as they race past him like a blurred landscape out of the window of a speeding train. Someone screams, someone shouts and the room shakes, the ceiling falls and—

 

“Cap?” Tony asks, holding onto Steve’s elbow as the last of his vision fades away. He blinks and for a moment Iron Man’s armoured grasp is the only thing holding him upright—his balance shot to hell as he tries to focus on what’s real and what’s not.

 

“I’m good.” He lies, shrugging Tony off as he pulls his arms closer to his chest, subconsciously curling in on himself. To his right, Thor is pacing angrily, his left hand grasping the hilt of his hammer so tightly that his knuckles have turned a bright white. At his feet, Hawkeye is kneeling in front of Natasha. Her eyes are forward facing but her gaze is far off and drifting. 

 

“Nat, listen to me,” Steve hears Clint whisper assuredly as he helps her to her feet. “You’re not there. It’s not real.” 

 

They all follow Tony back to the jet, and take their seats. Steve sees Bruce huddled and shaking. He watches silently as Tony unfolds a blanket and drapes it over Banner’s shoulders before sitting down himself.  Hawkeye takes the controls as soon as Natasha gives him the go-ahead he’s been waiting for, and they all sit in silence, each haunted by the nightmares that are still too close to the surface to ignore.

 

“We took a hit.” Steve hears Tony tell Maria. He thinks about reaching out and falling and how he can hear Thor’s jaw creak as he grits his teeth, and Bruce’s hitched breathing as he tries to calm himself down. He can see Nat’s eerily vacant stare, while her fingers nervously tap out a tune on her thigh, and then he thinks that ‘a hit’ might be a bit of an understatement. 

 

… 

 

Thor decides toleave within minutes of their arrival at the farm. Steve follows him out the front door, and watches as he swings his hammer to the heavens and shoots off into the sky. 

 

Steve turns back around to look up at Barton’s farmhouse. Its walls are weathered with age. In some places, where the paint has peeled and cracked, strips of it fall to the ground like autumn leaves. Despite this, Steve can tell that its foundations are strong. The porch swing squeaks, and in the bushes, he can see a cat hiding from view. There is a little girl’s face at the window, watching.

 

Steve thinks of the lego-house Thor accidentally crushed with his foot; its broken pieces swept under the rug like some awful metaphor for the trail of destruction the Avengers keep leaving in their wake. He can feel his own guilt start to rear its ugly head as he thinks about all of the things he should have done, or said, or stopped.

 

Or saved.

 

_“The War's over,”_ he can hear Peggy saying, her voice whispering on the wind that shakes through the tall grass. _“We can go home.”_

 

It’s a lie he tells himself often. 

 

…

 

Steve sends Sam a message on a secure line, telling him not to worry, but he’s gonna have to go dark for a little while.

 

_You need backup?_ Sam asks, and Steve can’t even entertain the thought of having Sam in the middle of any of this right now. He won’t make Sam a target when Ultron has called out the Avengers to be the first to go.

 

_No, we can handle it. I’ll see you soon._

 

_Yeah well, you better._ Sam replies. _Be safe._

 

_You too._

 

“You planning on telling him about your vision?” Nat asks, leaning over his shoulder and reading his texts. 

 

“You planning on telling him about yours?” He fires back in concern.

 

“…Touché.” She replies, and Steve wonders how much hurt her self-deprecative smirk is hiding, and what kind of horrors have the power to affect her so. When all of this is over, he thinks, they’ll talk over a couple of beers, or they’ll spar in the Tower’s gym until they’re red in the face _and then_ talk.

 

They’ll get through this, because they have to. It’s as simple as that.

 

 

...

 

The lights of the ballroom above them are colder now, more like moonlight than sunshine. The audience around them fade away like morning mist, and suddenly they’re alone, illuminated in the pale blue glow. 

 

“Don’t go.” Steve begs, feeling as he once did before the serum ever entered his veins. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Bucky promises as they continue to dance, sidestepping the week-old trash that clutters the ground now. Their twirling creates tiny storm clouds of dust at their feet as they disturb the dirt there. Cobwebs form above them; spindled silk decorates every surface. The windows are boarded up with rotting wood, casting shafts of light through its cracks and onto the floor. Time has not been kind to this place. 

 

To any of them.

 

“Liar.” Steve whispers brokenly as the pain in his chest blooms. He turns away for a moment to catch his breath and when he looks back, Bucky’s still standing in the same spot, but his hair is long, and his expression is hardened by things Steve can’t bear to think about lest the guilt swallow him whole. Bucky’s dressed all in black, and the metal of his left hand catches in the stream of light that falls between the slats on the window. It gleams. It glistens. Steve can see blood there too, dried between the metal plates of his palm, seeping into the cracks of his fingertips. It’s dripping on the floor.

 

“Careful Stevie, that shit stains.”

 

Steve looks down at his own hands to see that they’re just as red.

 

“You’re dreaming.” Bucky reminds him, matter-of-factly, leaning into Steve’s touch once more.  His teeth drag along the side of his jaw as he grabs Steve’s collar in his fists, while Steve's fingers dig deep into the muscle of Bucky’s back, holding tight enough to bruise, as if to carry them both through the motion as they spin. He’d let his arms snap before letting go again. They kiss each other with a kind of immediacy that betrays their wanting, and when they pull apart, all wide eyed and breathless, Steve knows Bucky’s words to be true.

 

“I know.” He admits as the light grows warmer, and the music returns slowly at first before gathering in momentum. The tempo rises and the audience returns from out of the dust and smoke to dance circles around them. Steve feels Bucky backing away, so he reaches out, grabs his wrist, and _pulls_. 

 

They collide. Their bodies brought together by something stronger than brotherhood, and more painful than friendship. They crash against the shores of each other’s loneliness and cling. Bucky grabs hold of Steve, nails digging deep, leaving half-moon shaped marks on the skin of his forearm, and in that moment they’re both lost and found at the same time. The music builds to a crescendo, and Steve takes a deep breath against the crook of Bucky’s collar-bone. One long inhale and his memory is assaulted by smoke and leather and baby shampoo—he imagines his fingers being smaller, bony and long as they draw shapes in the expanse of Bucky’s chest— _ever the artist_ , says Bucky, smiling. 

 

Metal fingers brushing against the length of his hip-bone pull him out of his reverie, and he laughs, breathless and slow. Bucky’s teeth nip against Steve’s ear like a warning sign, so Steve reaches for him instead. His hands cradle Bucky’s face before he steals a kiss. It starts out slow, but Bucky’s left hand is in Steve’s hair and his right is grabbing Steve’s crotch. Their teeth knock at one another, and drag at each other’s lips until they’re rubbed-red and sore. 

 

“This isn’t real.” Steve says. Steve knows.

 

And Bucky—his voice hoarse and burdened with horrors Steve can’t even begin to fathom says— “No, not yet.”

 

…

  

Steve wakes up in a cold sweat and looks around the unfamiliar room. He frowns for a moment, taking deep breaths and reminding himself that he’s at Barton’s farm, with the rest of his team, and the only reason he’s feeling so out of sorts is because the Maximoff girl messed with his head.

 

(He wishes that last part were true. In his mind he imagines Sam giving him a pointed stare that says otherwise.)

 

The door is open, and silhouetted against the light in the hall, stands Natasha—leaning against the doorframe.

 

“Can’t sleep?” She asks, and Steve turns to stare at the digital clock by his bedside. It reads 04:13am.

 

“Obviously not the only one.” He mutters in response, gesturing to Natasha and the otherwise empty room, and dragging a hand over his face as he sits up. Natasha steps forward and moves to sit side by side with Steve, her back resting against the headboard. 

 

“We’ll find him,” she says, out of the blue, turning her head to the right to look at Steve, and he gets the distinct impression she's not talking about Ultron. “Just as soon as he wants to be found.” She promises, and Steve wonders how she could possibly know—

 

“You called out his name, in your sleep.”

 

_ “Oh.” _

 

So that’s how things are now. Months of progress—his nightmares ever present but somewhat…less so—and now he’s back to square one. Back to crying out his best friend’s name in the dark: waking up to his hand held aloft, fingertips ever reaching for the falling man. 

 

Steve feels his cheeks go red, and is suddenly very glad for the darkness that surrounds them.

 

“You should try and get some sleep.” Steve says after a beat. Natasha tilts her head for a moment, as though she’s asking herself if that’s even a remote possibility. She looks ready to say that it’s not. Her lips quirk, as though she wants to keep talking, and keep talking about Steve's personal life in particular, but instead she settles on a harried smile.

 

“You too, Rogers.” She pats the rumpled sheets at his knees, before leaving. The door closes with a soft click. Steve lets his head sink back into the pillows, and tries not to suffocate under the weight of his own memories.

 

…

 

_“We’ll have the band play something slow.”_

 

…

 

“Isn’t that the mission?” Tony asks, incredulous, the next day, as he lets his axe fall and embed itself into the chopping block. “Isn’t that _why_ we fight? So we can end the fight, so we get to go home?”

 

And there’s that word again, _home_. Steve’s home is Brooklyn, seventy years ago. Steve’s _place of residence_ is in Washington DC, with his belongings stashed in boxes. Steve’s home doesn’t exist anymore. Steve’s home is hiding out somewhere and it’s been over a year and Steve still hasn’t found him yet.

 

“Every time someone tries to win a war before it starts, innocent people die. Every time.”

 

Steve’s tired of arguing the same point over and over again— _this isn’t freedom, it’s fear_ —and he’s secretly relieved when Mrs. Barton has a task to keep Tony occupied.

 

“You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?” Steve asks Laura a little later, once the chopped wood is stored and the last of any farm chores are done with. The early evening sun is hanging low over the fields and she smiles, clearly amused at his inability to sit still. 

 

“Honestly Steve, between all of you, we’re pretty set. But thank you.” She replies. “You’ve all had a pretty rough couple days. Why don’t you try and get some rest?”

 

“I guess Clint told you about Tony’s snoring.” Steve says trying to lighten the mood—when really Steve knows his nightmares are to blame for any sleepless nights he’s currently enduring.

 

“It’s safe to assume that Clint tells me everything.”

 

“Glad to hear it, Mrs. Barton.”

 

“Oh no, come on, if I’m not allowed to call you _Mr. Rogers_ , then there’s no way you’re getting away with not calling me Laura.”

 

“Okay.” Steve smiles, deciding to go with her suggestion of some shut-eye. “Thank you… _Laura_.”

 

…

 

“What makes you happy?” Sam asks in Steve’s dream, that materialises within moments of his pounding head hitting the pillow. If Steve thinks seeing someone who was born in the late seventies in a forties dance hall looks out of place, well, the rest of his subconscious doesn’t seem to think so.

 

Instead of giving his usual, _“I don’t know,”_ response to Sam’s question, Steve finds himself looking up at the doorway at the far end of the ballroom instead, and staring at the shadow of a man standing there, just out of reach. 

 

While Steve watches, the shadow—whose silhouette is familiar even now after all this time—falls to his knees, and a man in a suit puts his hand on the shadow’s shoulder. Steve feels, rather than hears the primal snarl as he shouts, _“Get your hands off him.”_

 

Steve reaches out but the crowd surges and suddenly the ballroom is full to the brim, and with each sidestep, he’s blocked by more dancers. He sees the Avengers in the crowd, while Col. Philips’ laugh booms from the direction of the bar. Old neighbours from Washington stand in his way, while ex-shield agents dance with the men and women he served with in the SSR. 

 

“I’m sorry!” Steve shouts, hoping against hope that it’s enough and that his voice will carry, and that now is as good a time as any to bare his soul.  “I should have gone back for you. I should have looked—”

 

A figure comes up behind him, his shadow towers several feet over Steve’s. 

 

“My, my.” It says cruelly, and Steve’s reminded of its menacing stumble back at the tower—hanging strips of wire and loose connections, like some some rotting corpse coming closer. Like some forgotten thing, crawling into the light. The absence of displaced air when it speaks has Steve’s blood run cold. The absence of _humanity_ rocks him to his core. There are high-end corkscrews where a voice box should be, and a metal hand clutching his shoulder tightly—a mirrored image of Bucky and his handler in the distance. 

 

“You couldn’t even save him.” Mechanical teeth grind, but the voice is eerily smooth. “What makes you think you can stop me?”

 

Steve can see the blue of Bucky’s eyes even across the distance of the dance-hall, even through the throng of Steve’s past and present waltzing in their way. He can see the disappointment there, the hurt.

 

He feels a sudden crushing pain at the base of his skull from Ultron’s iron grip and he wakes up with a shiver. 

 

There’s a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Tony pokes his head in. He frowns to see Steve on the bed, blinking owlishly—and Steve braces himself for an old man joke, but instead a flash of understanding flutters across Tony’s face. 

 

“Laura—” He says, “that is to say, _Mrs. Hawkeye_ , made cocoa if you want some.”

 

It’s almost too surreal, but then this is the future, and they’re fighting a giant murderous robot, when two years ago they were fighting _aliens_ and Steve doesn't know why anything surprises him anymore.

 

“I’ll be out in a second.” Steve says clearing his throat, surprised at himself for having fallen asleep so early in the first place. He looks at the clock—he’s been out for less than an hour, but he probably spent most of that in a heightened state of anxiety, trying to process all the crap in his head.

 

Tony looks back into the hall, before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

 

“While I am, in no way, a picture of perfect mental health, I do know that talking can help.” Tony says, looking uncomfortable, but determined to continue all the same. “It kinda makes the nightmares a little less…intense.”

 

“I thought you didn’t trust me.” Steve mutters, cringing at the memory of his ripping a log in half earlier that day. While not to say he was wrong to do so, letting his frustrations get the better of him might not have been his finest moment.

 

“I didn’t say that. You _know_ I didn’t say that.” Tony sighs, as he sits on the bed. “But maybe you were right, maybe I haven’t seen your dark side yet.” He stops, and waits for Steve to look at him, so that he can make sure his point hits home. “Maybe you haven’t _found_ it yet.” 

 

Steve almost hears ‘him’ instead of ‘it’ and he gets the impression that was Tony’s intention in the first place.

 

“I’ll save you a mug.” He says. Before Steve can think of a reply, Tony heads out and gives Steve the privacy he needs to get himself together before joining in on the briefing he knows Fury’s desperate to give.

 

…

 

_“People are gonna die, Buck. I can’t let that happen. Please don’t make me do this.”_

 

…

 

Later, when Steve’s body is singing with its aches and pains; when he can feel a rib shifting each time he moves, and his shoulder has been wrenched out of place, he’ll shake it off, because he knows his body can take it, and he needs to keep going until this day is finally over.

 

The city is flying. Their enemies are now allies, and Ultron and his robots continue to be a pain in the ass. He makes it his mission, as always, to save as many people as he can, and then, almost as quickly as it began, the fight’s over. There are thousands of broken Ultron husks littered across the city, and sadly some human counterparts join them at their feet.

 

He carries Pietro’s body over to the carrier, and lays him down on the ground as gently as he can next to an empty row of seats that Hawkeye can lie on. When Steve stares down at his hands, red with blood, he can hear Bucky’s voice in the back of his head saying, _“Careful Stevie, that shit stains.”_

 

Even later still, when they’re on their way back to the states, Steve will call Sam, and as soon as the call connects he’ll have to hold his phone away from his ear until the shouting has died down and he can get a word in edgeways.

 

“Man, I don’t think you know what ‘handling it’ means.”

 

“I’m guessing you saw.”

 

“Yeah I _saw._ You guys are all over the news. Some teenager’s grainy cellphone footage has Captain America hanging off the edge of what used to be some massive bridge before it got _torn in half_.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Okay, I’m done. Are you okay? Is everyone else okay?”

 

“Yeah, Sam, we’re on our way back now.”

 

“You wanna crash at mine? You know it’s about time we made it through the _Die Hard_ box set.”

 

“Nah, that’s okay.” Steve answers, smiling to himself at the kind gesture. “I’m actually looking forward to sleeping in my own bed for once. Even if it is surrounded by boxes.”

 

“You packed up your apartment already? I thought I was gonna help you do that.”

 

“I, uh, couldn’t sleep.”

 

“You don’t say.” 

 

“Look, why don’t you use the time you would’ve helped me pack to practise not knocking people over with your enhanced wingspan.” Steve says, distracting Sam with the jab.

 

“One time, it happened _once_.”

 

Steve laughs.

 

“In all seriousness, Steve, I know you’re gonna need some time to decompress or whatever, but the second you’re up for company I want you to drop by, or tell me to come over, okay? And you can tell me all about your busy weekend.”

 

“You got it, and thank you, Sam. I mean it.” He doesn’t ask if there are any leads—he knows Sam would have told him straight off the bat if there were.

 

“No problem, man. Good talk. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

 

“Soon. Definitely.” He promises.

 

…

 

_“Home is home, you know?”_  

 

…

 

Steve feels strangely at ease with the way his apartment resembles less and less a place that has been lived in with each passing day. The living area is completely bare—his bookshelves empty, no furniture to speak of. All of it has been carefully packed and piled into one corner of his apartment, ready to move just as soon as he finds a place to move it to. 

 

The only furniture not packed away is his bed, and the clean sheets on top. There’s still food in the kitchen too, along with one plate, one bowl and the necessary cutlery. He won’t be having any dinner parties, but then again, he’s not planning on sticking around for much longer either.  He stopped seeing DC as his home, when everything he knew and fought for turned out to be a lie. He _misses_ Brooklyn, with all of its sharp edges, even if it’s not the same one he used to know. And desite all of that, it still has more good memories than Washington does bad.

 

He still finds it hard to sleep in his too-soft bed, but he starts to drift under at the first rumblings of thunder outside of his window. He’s fast asleep before the rainfall starts.

 

…

 

_“I can’t lose you again.” Steve says over and over again because no one’s listening over the air-raid sirens, but people are pushing and shoving and Steve can’t decide what direction to take or where to go next._

 

_“Idiot,” Bucky yells back. “I’m right here!”_

 

_There’s an awful ominous whistle getting closer and closer. They’ve run out of time. It’s over._

 

_“No, you’re n—”_

 

…

 

For all of thirty seconds, Steve thinks it’s his body’s natural knee-jerk reaction that has him waking from his dream when he does. But then he hears it. A muffled thud, and then a curse coming from the front room of his apartment. It’s quiet, and if it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he doubts he would have heard a thing. He gets out of bed and grabs his shield before heading out to investigate. The heavy rainfall battering his windows help mask the sounds of his feet tip-toeing closer. 

 

He needn’t have bothered.

 

“Bucky?” Steve asks carefully, staring at the new arrival. He has his back to Steve, facing the window and Steve has no idea if he’s covering his tracks or making a run for it. He’s soaked, and his sodden clothes are leaving a puddle on Steve’s floorboards.

 

With careful telegraphed movements—because he damn well knows he’s being watched—Steve puts the shield down, and keeps his hands held aloft. Bucky turns just as slowly to face him, and Steve tries not to frown at what little he can see from the light of the streetlamp outside. Bucky’s hair is limp and dripping with rainwater. His skin is ashen grey, his lips are almost white and when he opens his mouth to speak, Steve has no idea what to expect. 

 

He certainly doesn’t expect to see the tension in Bucky’s stance fade away at the sight of Steve standing there. Like an arrow released from it’s string, his shoulders slump, and he lets out a relieved sigh, whispering, “You’re okay,” to Steve, as though he’d expected otherwise.

 

Steve also doesn’t expect Bucky to suddenly fall forward as his knees give out, but there’s something to be said about super soldiers and their reflexes because despite the surprise, Steve still manages to catch Bucky in time before he hits the floor.

 

“Thanks.” Bucky says quietly, his voice raspy from disuse.

 

“No problem.” Steve replies, desperately trying to keep his tone light and unaffected and calm as though the return of long lost friends—turned amnesiac assassins—is a completely normal and regular occurrence for him. As if the last time they saw one another, Bucky wasn’t screaming that Steve was his mission while the world around them burned. 

 

…

 

With Steve’s arm locked under Bucky’s armpit, and Bucky’s arm draped over Steve’s shoulders, they slowly make their way to the bathroom. Steve guides Bucky to sit on the edge of the tub, and gestures for him to shrug out of his wet clothes. He doesn’t miss the obvious wince when Bucky pulls the jacket away from his left side—the cause of which is made obvious when the dark material falls in a pile on the ground, to reveal a blood-soaked grey undershirt.

 

“Jeez, Buck.”

 

“I’m _fine_.” 

 

“You’re really not.” Steve responds, handing Bucky a towel to dry himself, and grabbing for the first aid kit he mercifully hadn’t packed yet.

 

“I heal fast.” Bucky insists.

 

“Not if you bleed out first.” Steve says, the familiar frustrated tone of dealing with Bucky’s stubbornness falling into place. If it bothers Bucky now he doesn’t show it, instead he yanks the grey shirt over his head, with little to no concern for his own wounds.

 

“Here,” Steve says, holding out extra strength painkillers and a glass of water. “Your metabolism will probably work through ‘em pretty quick, if you’re anything like me, but it’ll be better than nothing.” Steve doesn’t say that they’re left over from his own hospital stay following their last encounter together, but Bucky gives him a look that says the thought’s already crossed his mind. 

 

They fall into a comfortable silence as Steve focuses on the task at hand and carefully cleans the long deep gash on Bucky’s back. It runs from the tip of his shoulder blade, and curves down around his ribs. The blade must have been large, and not for the first time Steve finds himself wondering what Bucky’s been doing all this time. 

 

The only mark on Bucky’s body is the gnarled scar-tissue that sits at the transition between metal and flesh on his left shoulder. There are no pock-marks, no faded white lines from knife wounds he’s seen Bucky suffer from in person. Hell, he remembers Bucky getting shot in ’44 like it was yesterday but there’s not a trace of that shared history on his skin.

 

He hates to think of the daily trauma the prosthetic must be causing to prevent the tissue from healing along with the rest of him. 

 

When he’s done disinfecting the wound he realises it only needs a couple stitches after all. Once the gauze is in place, he shifts his attention to the smaller gash on Bucky’s front. The towel he’s been holding there isn’t completely soaked through and Steve considers that to be a small mercy. Then again, based on Bucky’s pallor—that’s only improved in the last few minutes—he has no idea how long his best friend’s been walking around, bleeding, in the first place. 

 

“This one should be okay without stitches, but I still need to clean it, okay?” Steve says keeping Bucky updated. When he doesn’t get a response, he looks up to find Bucky staring intently in his direction. 

 

“Buck? You doing okay?” Steve asks, concerned. Bucky nods his head but his movements seem slow, and Steve’s about to check him for a head-injury, when Bucky’s own hand reaches out instead. It’s tentative at first, restrained, but Steve makes no effort to move. His fingers brush at Steve’s cheek—he knows there’s a bruise there, he noticed it earlier, courtesy of a robot sucker punch the day before, but Bucky’s touch is so light that the motion is painless. 

 

“Buck?”

 

“I had to…I had to _see you_.” Bucky says, letting his hand drop to his side and finally explaining his impromptu arrival. “I saw the news. You were fighting that—those, those… _things,_ and—” 

 

Steve wonders again where Bucky was exactly when he saw the news—he wonders if he was the distraction that let whoever Bucky was fighting get the drop on him. 

 

“—there was a bridge.”

 

Steve closes his eyes and exhales. He remembers holding onto the rebar and a woman screaming below, and thinks that whatever footage Sam saw must be making the rounds. Then he realises that the angle of the camera would have been on the ground looking up. And then he thinks of trains and snow and the howling wind like a ghost’s screams haunting him and he shudders.

 

“I always remember falling.” Bucky confesses, and Steve marvels at this—their longest conversation in seventy years—while at the same time his heart breaks at the subject matter. “But I never seem to hit the ground.”

 

Steve isn't sure if that’s a blessing in disguise or not. He’s sure of one thing though, they’re both still haunted by that day, and he doubts they’ll be getting over it any time soon. 

 

…

 

Steve doesn’t notice Bucky close his eyes—and he can’t tell if it’s the painkillers, or the blood-loss or both, but all he knows is that all of a sudden, Bucky’s sat up, his back ramrod straight, his eyes cold and his metal fingers are grabbing Steve’s wrist so tightly that he can feel his bones grind. He drops the bloody cloth and waits.

 

It only lasts a second, before familiarity floods the blue of Bucky’s gaze and his hand lets go of Steve’s arm instantly as if burned.

 

“Guess I’m not the only one with nightmares.” Steve says, stating the obvious in an attempt to downplay the situation and keep Bucky calm. He fears the damage may already be done.

 

“I'm all done. You must be starving.” Steve says then, changing topics completely. “I’ll fix something up. And you can go grab a spare shirt from my room. There are a couple of boxes labelled ‘clothes’ so just rummage through and grab whatever you want.”

 

When Bucky joins Steve in the kitchen. he’s wearing a grey sweater. The sleeves are a little short, so Bucky’s rolled them up to his elbows and he’s wearing a pair of Steve dark-blue sweatpants. There’s definitely more colour to his skin now, and Steve happily puts a huge glass of orange juice in front of him along with a turkey sandwich.

 

Bucky nods his thanks and then gesturing to the pile of boxes he asks, _"headed anywhere special?_ " around a mouthful of turkey.

 

“Uh sort of. I’m actually looking for somewhere in Brooklyn. It feels weird to have been away from her for so long, you know?”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“I cleared out a Hydra safe-house in Hell's Kitchen a couple weeks ago. Wandered over the bridge for a little bit before heading out.”

 

Steve hates the thought of any kind of Hydra activity being that close to his home turf, but with the evil agency reaching so far across the globe, and so embedded into shield, it’s no wonder that there’s a safe-house or two that they’ve missed.

 

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Hunting down Hydra?”

 

“They have to pay for what they did.” Bucky doesn’t say ‘to me’ but Steve hears it anyway. They finish the rest of their food in silence and when they’re done, Bucky tells Steve quietly that he visited his exhibition at the Smithsonian.

 

"It felt like I was walking over my own grave, you know?” And Steve nods because he couldn’t have put it better himself. “I think it helped though.”

 

“That’s good.” Steve says, because it is. They keep talking that way, in fits and starts, and because there’s nowhere else to go, they end up sitting, propped up against the wall at the head of Steve’s bed. There’s a tree swaying dangerously in the wind outside. It stands between Steve’s apartment and a street lamp and casts shadows that swing sharply left and right, all around the room. On the bed, Steve and Bucky are leaning close, both so caught up in the memory of _being_ together, that they hardly remember being apart.

 

…

 

Steve doesn’t dream of dancing, he remembers it instead. 

 

It’s 1939 and Bucky’s dragged Steve up to the roof of their building with a bottle of beer that they’ll share between them and a portable radio that he’s borrowed from the lady downstairs. They don’t know it yet, but the radio’s broken.

 

"Piece of junk." Bucky mutters angrily and Steve doesn't understand why Bucky is so disappointed. 

 

 “You’re always complaining that you don’t know how to dance.” Bucky explains eventually as he pops the beer bottle open using the bricks on the edge of the rooftop. “But I can’t show you if we ain’t got no music.”

 

He takes a long swig of alcohol and Steve copies him exactly, before coughing at the taste, and wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve.

 

“Who needs some crummy radio? Come on. You wanted to teach me, so teach me.”

 

And that’s when Steve starts humming, but he can’t sing and avoid stepping on his best friend’s toes at the same time, so Bucky takes over humming instead. Steve’s movements are a little clumsy and Bucky has to take the lead too many times to stop them both from standing still.

 

“You gotta learn to lead, Stevie. Look, just pretend I’m your gal or something.” Bucky suggests, and Steve can practically feel the tips of his ears turning pink. 

 

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for leading _anything,_ Buck.”

 

“Are you kidding? Why do you think I follow you around the place? You’ve got this…”

 

“…What? I’ve got this what?”

 

“I dunno, this… _thing_ about you. Just stop yapping and lead already.”

 

And it starts off innocent enough, but then their hips get that little bit closer. The sun sets low between the tenement buildings—casting tall shadows behind them as they dance. Their bodies touch, and even though Bucky’s a little hunched over from the height difference, he’s got his head tucked into Steve’s shoulder like he belongs there. His soft humming, turns to singing, turns to _we’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day._

 

Steve blinks as the memory fades away and a rainy dawn in Washington replaces a Brooklyn sunset in Summer. Bucky’s humming now too. He’s lying on his side to keep pressure off of the wound on his back and he’s absent-mindedly rubbing circles into Steve’s shoulder as he sings ’ _til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away._

 

It’s unbelievably soothing, and Steve doesn’t even realise he’s fallen asleep until he’s waking up to the sound of his window latch closing. The other side of the bed is empty, and Bucky’s jacket and jeans are no longer drying on the radiator.

 

Steve doesn’t stop to think, he doesn’t even put on _shoes,_ he just takes off running out of his apartment, down the stairs and out the door. Bucky’s got the head-start but Steve’s got a kind of bull-headed tenaciousness that guarantees a win. 

 

“Wait!” He calls out, his bare feet splashing through puddles, as he slows down to a jog the closer he gets. “Please.”

 

Bucky stops, but he keeps his eyes forward.

 

“I never should have come here in the first place." He says, his voice raw. "It was selfish and stupid.” 

 

“No, no it wasn’t—”

 

“Yes it was. I just, I get these, these flashes and I know you’re in them, and I know you’re _you_. And then the news showed you falling and I couldn't— _dammit_.”

 

“Bucky, please, you don’t have to go.”

 

“If I stay in one place too long, they’ll find me, and if I’m with you then you’re in danger. Can't you see that?”

 

“Who's they? Bucky, who's chasing you?”

 

“Shield, Hydra, whatever organisation that inherits the horrors that came before. They won’t ever stop.”

 

“So we’ll face them together.”

 

“It’s not as easy as that.” Bucky shakes his head as his shoulders slump and he turns to face Steve. “I’m done hurting you.”

 

“And I’m done hurting without you.” Steve says, almost angrily. “You’ve been running for over a year, and you know if you keep running they’ll never let you stop.” He dares take a step closer. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

 

Bucky groans. “Dammit, Steve, do you always have to be so goddamn stubborn?”

 

Steve stops, and stares. He remembers this, this feeling of breathlessness. He hadn’t realised until now—standing out in the street barefoot in the middle of a storm—how much he’d missed the sound of Bucky saying his name. It sounds so different to his dreams or nightmares. There’s a bitter undercurrent there now that his own subconscious would never recreate but it’s _real_ and it’s familiar, and safe.

 

He doesn’t bother answering the question. If Bucky has even a fraction of his memories, then he’ll remember that stubbornness is exactly what’s kept Steve alive this long, when his number should have been up a long time ago. It’s a trait they share. 

 

Steve takes another step closer, and reaches out to brush Bucky’s hair out of his face. The rain isn’t helping matters, but as he does so, he sees Bucky bite his lip, before he reaches out for Steve and pulls him forward in a sudden kiss. It’s rushed and intense but lucky for them, Steve catches on quick. He returns the motion with the same fervour and possessiveness as Bucky until both of them are breathing heavy out in the open, their eyes bright and wanting as they stand getting drenched in the storm that surrounds them.

 

“Don’t go,” Steve pleads. “Please, don’t go. I can’t lose you, not again.”

 

“I’m right here.” Bucky whispers and Steve’s breath hitches because damn it, he’s heard that one before. For a moment the image of Bucky in the dance-hall is superimposed over the Bucky he sees now—out in the rain, his eyes searching, his brow furrowed.

 

“So you’ll stay?”

 

Bucky sighs.

 

“You don’t have to look so smug about it.”

 

Steve laughs, and holds Bucky’s metal hand, surprised at the warmth he finds there. He looks up and sees a blue sky trying to push its way past the dark clouds of last night’s storm. A new morning making its way out into the light. Later, when they’re lying in bed, tangled together under the soft sheets, Steve will look over to Bucky’s sleeping face and whisper, “ _Stay,_ ” as he plants a kiss on Bucky’s forehead. 

 

And when Bucky mutters, _“‘m not goin’ anywhere,”_ in return, still half asleep and nuzzling closer into Steve’s embrace, he’ll think to himself, this must be what home feels like. Safe and sound and good. A reward for hard work and hard times. And perhaps there’s more to come, harder still, but together they’ll sleep and dream, and for the most part, the nightmares won’t find them, not here, not now, not when they’ve found each other instead. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The reason I'm blaming Hozier, is because "Work Song" is a thing of beauty and it was on repeat almost the whole time I was writing this. Hence the title.
> 
> I hope you liked this, please let me know if you did!  
> & feel free to say hello on [tumblr](https://mellaithwen.tumblr.com/post/136475319216/in-the-low-lamp-light-i-was-free-heaven-and-hell)


End file.
